Eldest
by hiding duh
Summary: Peter/Susan. It's all fun and games until someone breaks.


Again, totally movie-verse.

**Author's** **Note**: Man. This is gonna take _forever_. Mou.

* * *

. 

In retrospect, it was Susan's fault.

She'd started it.

And if anyone ever asked the eldest Pevensie in Narnia—King Peter the Magnificent—why his trousers had mysteriously disappeared, or why his head had been dunked in the river, or why he was limping back to the castle on such a lovely spring day, he wouldn't give them a very nice answer.

Or any at all, since he was so phenomenally mad he couldn't form a single coherent sentence.

So instead, he hastily pushed past the guards on duty—who were both polite enough to turn away before they doubled over, tittering—and tumbled into the Great Hall.

And as Peter stalked through the corridor, fists clenched and hair matted to his dirty forehead, dripping mud onto the red carpet, Susan lazily uncrossed her arms, sank against her throne, and smiled at him.

Smiled!

"Have a nice adventure, Peter?"

Peter took a step closer to the dais, shaking with rage.

"Gthbcktha," he muttered in an unspecified language, drenching the carpet.

Susan slid off her throne with too much unpracticed grace, hopped around the puddle he'd made, and circled around to face him. "Quite a fashion statement, too."

Peter whipped around, hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword, only to find it gone.

"Why's Peter's parts showing?" asked Lucy, poking her head through a curtain off to the left.

Edmund's head poked above hers, his crown slightly askew.

"Oh, for heaven's—Peter, Narnia can't use a blind king," he cringed, covering his eyes. "Put something on!"

Peter inhaled deeply, marched across the squishy carpet, and wrapped himself with the nearest cloth available.

"Not one word, Susan," he warned, running a hand through his sticky hair.

Susan stifled a giggle, then turned to Lucy and Edmund.

"Ten points for me, then?" she asked, bowing slightly.

"Twenty-four!" clapped Lucy happily. "After all, he's been seen by half of Narnia!"

Peter dropped onto his throne, hands gripping the armrests. "Susan."

Innocently, Susan sat by his feet, grinning as unspeakably dirty things sloshed off him. "Yes, Peter?"

"Tonight," he said.

"What about tonight?" she asked with a tiny frown, peeling an overgrown mosquito off Peter's skinned knee.

"I order you," he said as he wrung out his sleeve atop her perfectly arranged hair, "to fight me. One hundred thousand... million... jillion points to the winner."

With a glare, Susan calmly wiped off the mud dripping down her forehead.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I've heard you properly," she frowned, crossing her arms as she rose to tower over him. "Did you... did you just _order_ me?"

Peter raised his eyebrows, averting his eyes. "Possibly...?"

Susan lowered her arms and practically bared her fangs. "You can't order _me_!"

Peter jumped out of his seat, one hand clutching the soaked tablecloth around his hips. "I can, too! I'm ordering you! I'm ordering you right now!"

"It's only been a week since the coronation," cried Lucy, tugging at Edmund's sparkly sleeve. "A week! And now they'll do something completely stupid and get us banned from Narnia, and sure, we have indoor plumbing in London, but—"

Smirking, Edmund placed a hand on Lucy's head, spun her around, and marched her off, adding, "Don't worry, Lu. If anyone asks, _I'm_ your only brother."

Lucy concurred.

Peter barely noticed them leave.

"—could order you to—to strip down and dance on tables if—if I wanted to..." he finished lamely, shoulders slumping under the weight of her threatening scowl.

Seething, Susan poked his chest, hair flying about her. "Who. Do. You. Think. You. Are?" she asked, punctuating every syllable with a twitch.

Peter gave her a sheepish smile. "Um... High King of Narnia."

Susan was comatose for a brief moment, then stomped her foot. "...well, aside from that!"

A slow, almost devious smile curved his lips upwards.

"I'm the king of Narnia," he nodded to himself, as though he'd only just now realized.

Susan stuck out her bottom lip.

"Yes, well," she fidgeted, "I have just as much power as you do."

Peter inclined his head.

"Well, I _should_!" she amended, shedding her overcoat and rolling up her sleeves. "One hundred thousand... million... jillion points, you said?"

* * *

.

It was genius.

_He_ was a genius.

But the problem, Peter thought as he stared at Susan, was that he couldn't quite remember why.

"I can't help but notice," she mused, swinging her legs over a thick branch, "Narnia's a bit misogynistic."

Peter snorted, then sat opposite her on a halved tree trunk. "Enlighten me."

Susan split the wickets, outlining the western crease with salt. "I've never played cricket at night."

Amused, Peter poked her ankle with a stick. "Misogynistic."

"You've pronounced it wrong," she replied primly. "And why am _I_ preparing the field?"

"Misogynistic," he persisted.

Susan reached for the stick, and snapped it in two with an irritated huff. "It's just that, your sword is very shiny, and I would've liked to have gotten one, too."

Peter goggled. "Can you even _lift_ one?"

"Can I—?" she repeated incredulously, then huffed and impatiently extended her hand. "Give it."

Peter gave her a dubious once-over.

"Maybe I should fetch Lucy first," he mumbled to no one in particular.

"Why?" asked Susan pleasantly.

"In case you manage to stab your own foot," he replied, then quickly dodged an incoming sharp object.

"Honestly," she complained, fingers flying for his sheath, "how incompetent do you think I—" here, she abruptly unsheathed the blade, tipped her entire body back, then straightened with some effort. "Ow."

Peter bit back a grin.

"T-there," she said, breathing heavily, and leaning on the hilt for support. "Victory."

"Yes," Peter praised her, "but I did say _lift_."

Susan scowled at him, but did, however, grudgingly attempt to lift the sword.

A tiny triumphant smile played about the corner of her lips, and then—

—the breeze softly shifted—

—the sword leaned left, then right, then slid out of Susan's hands, the tip of the blade narrowly missing her foot.

Mortified, she looked up at him and quickly defended, "That was an accident, Peter."

Peter flicked her forehead, scowling. "I never said you'd do it on _purpose_!"

Shaking his head and muttering, he knelt before her and dug out his sword.

"Maybe..." said Susan awkwardly, rubbing her arms and staring at an imaginary spot in the distance. "Maybe he could've given me one that doesn't weigh more than a horse."

Peter's brow furrowed. "And then what? You'd tickle your enemies to death?"

Susan faltered.

"I'll bat first," she mumbled, bending to pick up a chiseled cane handle.

Peter grabbed her wrist, sheathing his sword.

"Be here in the morning," he ordered.

Susan bristled. "You can't tell me what to... oh. Alright."

And as Peter turned to flee, she threw over her shoulder, "You don't like me very much lately, do you?"

Peter stopped, turned his head only a little, and said, with a peculiar kind of smile, "Well, you _are_ up by seventy-eight points."

* * *

. 

Lucy absolutely loved mornings.

There was cake. And sunshine. And best of all, Edmund.

Edmund, who was refusing to wake up and pay attention to her, even though she'd pulled on his hair and sprinkled cold water on the back of his neck and sprawled atop him and was smacking her lips really loudly until he unceremoniously shook her off.

"Susan and Peter have gone," she said as she picked herself up off the floor. "We should've gone, too, Edmund."

Edmund raised his head for a moment.

"Gone where?" he asked blearily, rubbing his eyes.

"To the woods," she replied happily, pouncing on him and tangling herself in layers of blankets.

"What's in the woods?" yawned Edmund, eyes heavy with sleep.

Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her chubby cheeks to his messy hair. "Trees, Edmund!"

Edmund buried his face back into the pillows.

* * *

. 

"North is that way."

Peter scratched the back of his head. "No, the lake is that way. So, north is over here."

Susan smiled playfully.

"You know, it's nice that we're magnificent and gentle and just and valiant," she told Peter while ascending a mossy rock. "But we could use Christian the Compass right now."

"I'll write to mum," replied Peter, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

"Peter," she said to his back. "I'm sorry."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Er... what?"

Susan drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry I had you tossed into the river yesterday."

Peter grunted. "Well, then. I'm sorry for putting salt in your cake."

"I'm sorry for tearing holes in all your socks."

"I'm sorry for breaking your piggy bank."

"Sorry for telling dad about you breaking my piggy bank."

"Sorry for dropping you when you were a baby."

"Sorry for—wait, what?"

Peter coughed. "No, wait, that was Edmund."

Susan's eyes narrowed to wrathful slits. "You did _what_ to Edmund?"

Smiling disarmingly, Peter put his hands up. "Just, er... never mind. Sorry for interrupting."

Susan paused, confused. "Why are we apologizing like maniacs, Peter?"

"You started it."

"Yes, but I thought it'd be the smart thing to do," she explained mischievously, skipping ahead and curtsying. "Since we're out in the woods, alone, and you have a sword... and a convenient place to bury a corpse..."

It started slowly.

His shoulders shook, but only a little. His lips curled, but only a fraction. His eyes brightened, but he looked away.

"Are you laughing, oh, King Peter the Magnificent?" asked Susan with a haughty little smirk. "Five points for me!"

Instead of replying, Peter clumsily extended his left arm, gripped her shoulder, then pushed lightly until she tripped over a log and slid toward the lake.

Satisfied, he leaned over an uprooted tree and cocked his head inquisitively.

"Ten points for me, then?"

* * *

. 

"Lucy, they didn't name me Edmund the Patient for a _reason_."

Lucy's bottom lip curled. "But Edmund—"

Edmund stuffed her mouth with bread.

"Listen," he said with a suffering sigh. "Let Peter handle it. If he can mobilize an army and _lead_ it, he can survive a day with Susan."

Lucy quirked an eyebrow.

"On second thought," coughed Edmund, pocketing his lunch with one hand and reaching for his sister with the other. "We ought to make sure."


End file.
